


Distance, Getting Close

by sternel



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-28
Updated: 2004-10-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternel/pseuds/sternel
Summary: "It was far better to communicate in sounds, in handclasps,in small smiles and locked eyes."





	Distance, Getting Close

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Distance, Getting Close**

**by: Sternel**

**Character(s):** Andy  
**Pairing(s):** Toby/Andy  
**Category(s):** Drama  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Summary:** "It was far better to communicate in sounds, in handclasps, in small smiles and locked eyes."  
**Author's Note:** Written for the songfic challenge for Broomcupboard (LJ). My betas Femme and Keladry are better than metro. 

* * *

**Distance, Getting Close**

_China all the way to New York_  
Maybe you got lost in Mexico  
You're right next to me  
I think that you can hear me  
Funny how the distance learns to crawl  
Sometimes I think you want me to touch you  
But how can I when you build the Great Wall around you  
"I can feel the distance, getting close"  
-China, Tori Amos 

They don't talk much; they never have, even when they first began dating. He claimed it was because they used words so much all day that they needed the respite. She talked, day in and day out, and he wrote endlessly, and they found the peace refreshing. It was far better to communicate in sounds, in handclasps, in small smiles and locked eyes. 

They walked, sometimes, up and down the streets of New York: Brooklyn and Manhattan, and sometimes Queens but never Staten Island; the Bronx was too far. Usually, they just wandered around Brooklyn Heights, where they rented a too-small walk-up. They would roam Montague Street and take the train from Boro Hall into Chinatown to find somewhere to eat; wander Canal and let the sounds of the street fill their silences, until the glances and handholding wasn't enough. Those days, the trains always seemed to take longer than usual.

They would go to museums: the Met, the Guggenheim, the Natural History Museum, MoMA, and wander through exhibits; sometimes holding hands, sometimes on opposite sides of the room. He would drag her through entire exhibits to wander the Temple of Dendur despite her protests about the monotony of a pile of rocks, and she would insist on staring at a Pollock for hours, even though he rolled his eyes at the very mention, because he'd stay until she was done, complaining of boredom but eyeing her as attentively as she eyed Pollock; sooner or later she'd start to blush shades to match the artwork. They left quickly when that happened.

He asked her to go to temple with him, and she didn't say yes, but when he woke up one Saturday to get ready she got up with him, holding up a suit for his approval. He didn't say thank you, but he held her eyes and smiled, and they were nearly late, because she kissed him in reply. It became a tradition of theirs, and they always ended up stuck in a seat near the back because of it.

When he proposed, it wasn't with words. He took her to dinner and then they went walking on the Promenade, looking at the bridge and the lights and watching the ferries and boats out in the Harbor. She wasn't expecting it when he got down on one knee, and then she was crying too hard to speak, and he stood up and took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes for her, and by then a little crowd had gathered, and they applauded when she held out her hand for him to put the ring on. 

The day they stood under the chuppah, he was smiling, and he said "yes" so softly that the rabbi had to ask him to repeat it. Her voice was so rough with emotion that only he understood her. But they locked eyes for the entire service, and when it was over she was so weak-kneed that he had to hold her up when he kissed her. 

He'd escort her to her functions, even though he hated them, and she knew that he did, but he'd never say. His eyes always would be distant when they get home, but his hands would be as warm as ever, and she'd know things were all right, even if he didn't always look at her while they were out.

Walks became more infrequent as time went on. They were both too busy. Now they would get Chinese takeout instead, and go back to their apartment, and eat sitting curled up on the sofa, watching CNN or CSPAN. She would use chopsticks, and he stuck to forks, because chopsticks were a disaster for him: food would fly everywhere. So instead he would glare at her when she showed off by eating grains of rice, before leaning forward to let her feed him. 

She would read what he'd written, and he would go to her speeches and rallies. They communicated through their work, and through their bodies, letting their eyes and hands and mouths speak for them. It worked well. They worked well. 

But time marches on, and she's becoming more well-known, and so is he, and work eats up more and more of their time. He's spending more nights eating Chinese alone, and she calls him from her office, hearing the keys of his computer clink in the background. They are always short calls, because he never has much to say, and she's not in the habit of talking to him over the phone. Sometimes, he'll show up in her office with dinner for her, but those are usually the nights he's been working late to begin with. He gets calls for campaigns that are more and more far-flung, and she gets in the habit of not going home. The silence bothers her more when he's not there to talk to her with his eyes. 

When he's at home, they don't go for walks, because she's still in the office, and he's gotten used to eating whenever he's hungry, so he doesn't stop by with Chinese anymore. They haven't been to a museum in years, now, and sometimes when she has a moment she thinks she should go by the Met on her lunch hour and go see the Temple of Dendur, but then the phone will ring and she'll forget again.

If he's not in town, she doesn't go to temple. Sleep is too precious these days. She knows the rabbi has mentioned that to him, but he doesn't say anything to her about it, and because she's too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed when she gets home, she can't tell from his eyes what he's thinking.

He gets another phone call, from New Hampshire, and when she comes home with a bag of takeout, he's already gone, but he's left a note with the phone number of the hotel. She eats her dinner in silence, and doesn't call. She gets Mexican the next night, because she feels like something different, and eats it in her office, and contemplates moving home.

The day of the New York primary, she goes for a walk through Chinatown, alone, and lets the sounds of Canal Street wash over her and fill up the silence. 


End file.
